You scurvy shyster bastard, I know you're on that plane! What the hell do you think you're doing? As your attorney, I advise you to return immediately, this is a gross violation of your release agreement!
Our favorite Icelandic soap opera star, Nils, is traveling the globe as we speak and no one seems to know where he is headed. Could it be Central America? Upper Lapland? South Florida? The Phillipines? Pirating the coast of some small, unsuspecting country? Lock up your children, your dogs and your kæstur hákarl!
Nils is on the loose!
The left will go apeshit nutters on all of us for this one, but hey, we're Mississippi and we''re used to it. 'Member now, weir dum.
Alternative tagline: Maybe Roger Wicker isn't a wiener after all.
Thanks SondraK!
Many of you know that I travel by air frequently. And by virtue of that, I am required to jump through the necessary security hoops that were put into place after a handful of goat-humping, Allah-worshiping, perverted miscreants turned aircraft into flying bombs and piloted them into tall buildings. Thanks be to Allah, chicken shit be upon him.
Anyway, in the New and Improved America, the lowly air traveler has to put up with legions of highly-trained and specialized shock troops of the Transportation Security Administration. Or as I like to call them, graduates of the Barney Fife Vocational and Technical School of Certified Cop-A-Feelers.
Now, before I get too far off base with another vulgar and narrow-minded rantation, I will freely admit that stereotyping the whole of TSA is inappropriate and unfair, however, using the small sample of individuals that work at my airport here in Jackson as the control group, I feel I have the right to generalize, lump together and more specifically, talk shit about them.
In case you haven't noticed, it's a real pain in the read-endus as you pass through security. Off with the shoes, remove the laptop, take off your belt. Sir, is that a digital camera? Back up a step or two when the huge guy in front of you wrestles off his ostrich skin Justins and in the process shows his ass crack and associated ass hair that comes with it to the masses. And God forbid you get behind a gum-smacking, brainless, teenaged girl with her Ipod, her three belts, countless bangles and spangles, lace-up high heeled boots, laptop, purse, mini-E-computer, Hello Kitty makeup bag, digital camcorder and giant 59-ounce Diet Mountain Dew Slurpee from the 7-11.
What? Like, I can't like, take my drink on the plane? But like, I just bought it!
*sigh*
Just take a deep breath and a Valium, if you have it.
This past weekend as I was leaving town, the TSA representative at the kiosk where they check identification and boarding passes marked my pass and verified that I was indeed the long-haired hippy with the crazy facial hair in the picture. Just then, she was relieved of her shift at the kiosk and immediately took up a strong, well-formed position at the metal detector. As I passed through, she sternly studied my boarding pass quite thoroughly and gave me the once over with a keen eye before letting me pass.
Um, don't you remember that about 30-seconds ago, you were the one who scribbled these unintelligible marks on my boarding pass to begin with?
Guess not and I must assume this behavior is part of the grueling training regimen at Barney Fife Vo-Tech.
I can see the demographics of these employees clearly. Older folks, who aren't quite to retirement age, making a living wage on the government dime. Or the young college age kids looking for something to fill the pocketbook and pass the time before they move on to the bigger and better in life.
However, some of them are exactly what you see. Lazy, uneducated people looking for an easy job. And what's better than that? Well, an easy job with a badge and a modicum of authority, that's what! Just smart enough to pass the civil service exam with basic reading, writing and mathematical skills. Speaking skills are a different issue and some of them look like then can't comb their hair in the morning without studying a diagram of how to do it first thing each day. Start on the left. . .
I always chuckle inside as I watch my belongings get scanned through the all-seeing eye that is the protonic-disassociating, spectrographic diometer. For you non-tech lackeys out there, the x-ray machine. I giggle with anxiousness as I stare into the blank eyes of the TSA representative and ponder over the great question of how am I sure they're not really playing a hot game of Space Invaders back there instead of looking for bombs?
Who are these people? This is our first line of defense against Jihad-Jamal and his suicidal goat-humping brothers? No wonder I end up in the airport bar drinking Heineken and neat sides of Knob Creek as fast as I can before every flight.
With all of that said, it surprises me not that something like this would happen to a traveler when relinquished into the hands of these finely-tuned and well-aggregated security forces.
. . .after Beatrice's near brush with mechanical airplane passengering malfunction and the recent crash of a Turkish airliner in Amsterdam, I can readily admit that flying is not an appealing subject to me right now.
Yet, this afternoon I will again be boarding a plane to fly away from here into the black clouds of foul weather which have been building all day long. I believe the weather forecast is calling for hail and potential tornadoes later today and tonight. Hooray!
I hope they stocked up on Heineken and Knob Creek at the airport bar. Me and Doug Elmore are gonna have a lot to talk about.
Burnt Toast went to Ferrell Fest and all he got was this crappy hangover.
Chalk another one up for the books people. We managed to pull it off again and no one got hurt, no one got beat up, we did, however, have a little comical police intervention, but in the end, another great party.
I had to gate check my liver this morning before I got on the plane. Helluva a mess that was.
Now, I'm back in the office, but about to go out on a job or two. Last week, we had some very cold weather which put the kibosh on any concrete placing, so everyone has piled on the schedule for today. We've made millions of dollars putting square pegs in round holes and doing the work of ten men with five. People out sick, delays on previously scheduled work, vacation days, you name it. Guess it's gonna be another one of those days.
Just glad I don't have to put a rhombus into a isosceles trapezoid.
We'll catch up with the weekend happenings when I get a break from the workflow of real life. But for now, I leave you with this. . .
The Galvin Hat lives like Gunga Din. . .
. . .and what great weekend of fun can start without kicking Magnulf in the nuts first?
Yeeeowww!
Being the spiritual fellow that I am, passing through life under the guidance of great energies and spirit souls. . .
Hey, you spooks leave on outta here so I can concentrate!!
Alright, that's better.
The inevitability of life is patently unpredictable. Not even sure what I said there, but anyway, yesterday, a big ass plane splashed down into the Hudson River in New York. Through the glory of God, random luck, excellent piloting skills or a confluence of all, everyone survived the "unintentional water landing."
Today, I get on a plane. Lucky me, but I must take comfort in that my odds of surviving today's travel were greatly increased by the misfortune of yesterday's events. I was feeling pretty good about that until I just read, a second ago, the mantra of my Zen-A-Day calender for Thursday which says:
"Without staring death in the eye, as the perpetually reverse side of life, we cannot live fully and completely." -- Soko Morinaga
I'm almost afraid to turn the page to today's instruction.
Ok, I just did.
Friday, January 16
One day Banzan was walking through a market when he overheard a customer ask a butcher for the best piece of meat he had.
"Every piece in my shop is the best," the butcher said.
Hearing the butcher's explanation, Banzan became enlightened. -- Zen story
Uuuhhh. To hell with all this spiritual mumbo jumbo, am I supposed to get on that damn plane or what?
We all know that flying is a bitch, roight? I mean a full-blooded, all-American, red-headed, bee-yatch! Cold. Emotionless. Hardened.
Your late? "Fuck you," says the airport!
Me, well, I travel well. I'm prepared, courteous, mindful of my surroundings and generally well-behaved. Just give me some place to park it for a while to imbibe a drink or two and man, I'm right up there with God and baby Jesus. Altruistic even!
But, even I have a bad day or two and so do the airlines.
The day after Christmas, Beatrice and I packed up our belongings to return to H-town for the remainder of the week. We were carrying heavy, 7 bags including carry-ons, and a firearm. Things went smoothly at the check-in counter. I declared the gun, went through the rig-a-ma-roll with the service agent, gun unloaded, locked, locked in a box, locked in a luggage, checked the bags, got them scanned, boarding passes, checked-in, happy, good job, well-done, let's go. . .do what?
Excuse me? Uh, what was that you say? Our flight has been delayed by 4 hours you say? Flights out of Chicago have been canceled? Good Lord Bardenstein!
Hey, is that my blood pressure? Why is my face burning? Is my hair on fire? No worries Beatrice, let's get to the bar.
At the first bar, we encountered the first of many freaky people in the form of the bartender/waitress. She was this older, tall, blond, kooky woman with frazzled birdnest hair who fits the mold perfectly for women described as "crazy cat ladies." When she spoke, her head nodded exaggeratedly and her empty eyes blinked dramatically as she listened to our plight. Her responses we long and drawn out like "ooooohhhhhh, thaaaaaaattttssssss teeeerrrrribbllllllle." I'm sure this speech affliction was the result of one too many quaaludes during her disco days.
Before we could even order with the crazy cat lady she informed us that the bar would be closing so we had to order immediately. What? WTF is this?? It's only 5:30 p.m. on a freaking Friday night!! I mean, I know this is no night out on the town, but damn! She was kind enough to let us scarf down a sandwich and salad and half a beer before we were booted out into the main concourse where we found countless more freaks.
We moseyed down, yes we moseyed, only because it sounds better than perambulated, we moseyed down to our concourse, through security, scans, body searches. Thank God I didn't have to take off my socks and we eventually found our way to the OTHER bar in the airport, the "cool" bar where I know everyone's name. And not the people working there.
This bar's theme is the Mississippi Sports Hall of Fame and there are many a familiar face on the wall. Walter Peyton, Archie Manning, Jerry Rice, Dizzy Dean, lesser know figures like Frank "Bruiser" Kinard, James "Cool Papa" Bell, and hey, who's that there hiding behind that table?
Well, it's Doug Elmore, my dad's long-time friend. Alright, I'm feeling a little better.
I have a beer, a Beatrice, the eyes of my fellow Mississippians gazing down upon us. This won't be so bad. Only 4 more hours to go.
This is when the real freak show began.
We had "The Pacer." A nervous man with a comb-over, our unknown, but eventual seat-mate on the flight, who for hours, paced up and down the concourse, gobbling trail mix, sitting down, standing up, pace, pace, pace, pace, pace. Gobble, gobble, gobble. He eases over our way. Oh no! Ah, thank goodness, he turned off at the last second.
Then there was the "Loud Woman." A portly, splotchy, strawberry-blond who sat at the table across from us with a child, draining Crown Royal and Diet Coke as her child reminded her "your drunk," while she insisted on butting into our conversations with inane commentary as half a fried catfish sandwich hung out of her mouth. Lovely. Then proudly for her, we were forced to look at a cellphone picture of her with none other than Lance Bass she had taken earlier in the airport. Lance Bass was in Jackson? Just add that to the long list of weird people and things. . .
I asked the waitress casually, "So, what's up with the freak show?" Her flat reply was that the holidays always bring them out and described an armless man earlier that wanted shots of whiskey poured down his gullet and a blind man who drank coffee like water and paid for it with $11 borrowed from the cab driver who brought him to the airport. The holidays indeed.
Shortly after this information, a one-legged elderly woman entered the bar and then separately, a one-armed woman came in. Fascinating! What are the odds of that, especially after the prior conversation about the armless man? Beatrice and I felt we had descended into some alternate reality, a Twilight Zone even, as we marveled over the independence and dexterity of the one-armed madam.
I had to take a walk. Hey look, poorly thought out Christmas decorations!
Northwest Airlines must have a maximum height requirement for the seven passengers that fly to and from Detroit each day.
Beatrice and I finished our beverages and left the bar as it closed at 8:00 p.m. We made our way down to the end of the concourse to find a quiet corner to huddle in as we waited.
We hunkered down next to the cleaning cart and nested as best we could given the circumstances.
Out came the pretzel mix, Cokes, napkins and the latest issue of Culture magazine. Yes, Culture magazine is not what you think. Did I mention we're moving to Idaho to raise goats and make cheese? Naa-aa-aa-aa-aah, I'm not kidding and we are definitely as crazy as we look.
We made out as best we could keeping a great distance between the freak show and ourselves as we waited, but just across the hall from us in a cubbyhole next to the bathroom were three blinged-out ghetto brothers from Houston.
A problem? No.
Not until "n*gger" this and "n*gger" that started, followed by all forms of the f-bomb in a loud and ghetto-like attenuation. It wouldn't really have bothered me so much, none of those words offend me, it's only that they were being used in a public mart, loudly and without consideration to the elderly or children around them. But, I guess this is simply a by-product of "da man holdin' deez boyz down fo so long, dat dey cain't get no job or nothin'." And "dat sorry-ass muffugin ho' dat be shackin' up wit dat n*gger from down da skreet and I oughta bust up in dere and put a cap up in dat n*gga's heyd!"
I'm lovin' it.
I took a few deep breaths and imagined myself milking goats in Idaho with Beatrice and tending to my aging wheels of cheese that I will name "Toasticus Mull." Beatrice was kind enough to remind me that it was in fact Christmas and no matter our plight, our tribulations in trying to get home, we should be grateful for what we have. Togetherness, family, love and sharing. And she was right. . .
Indeed it is a time to be thankful, caring and giving. Forgiving. So, I forgive thee, even you three rude boys who have no future. I forgive Mother Nature for dissolving four and a half hours of my precious time. It's ok, it's really ok. I'm thankful.
Thankful for Ja-ger-mei-ster!
And for how long??
What am I supposed to do with that damn dog out there?
I think God was trying to kill me this afternoon. I drove through some of the worst lightning and rain I've seen in quite some time. I believe the storms were traveling in the same direction as I which meant that I was under constant barrage for miles! When I finally able to get off Highway 49 below McHenry and take Highway 67 south into the back door of Gulfport I found the leading edge of the storm. I tried to photograph the lightning while driving through blinding rain, which is plainly ignorant. But leave it to me to push the limits of stupidity.
I did manage to take this photo stopped at the Highway 67 exit. Nasty, nasty clouds.
I guess on the bright side we may have a slow day tomorrow.
my garden is dead. And all it took was three and a half weeks of neglect.
*sigh*
Well, I'm ready to get back on the road again. I've washed all the clothes, cooked a heap of food for the dastardly dad and the creepy, gay retiree across the road who I call Fruiticus Cakeus.
Poor Fruiticus is such a pain in the ass (no pun intended) that even his own family, who own about 1000 acres of pastureland over there won't have anything to do with him. He lives alone in an old home on the property and to the best of my knowledge has never been married nor fathered any children. I don't know if he's gay or not, but he makes some statements from time to time about my looks or hair that's enough to give a dead animal the creeps.
I wonder what this week has in store for me? More frustrations? Hopefully nothing but successes. We need it.
I'm staring in the bathroom with dread. Not that I don't want to take a shower, but I know that right after, I'm back in the truck headed south. And I guess my vacation to my old stomping grounds in Costa Rica is on hold until further notice also. Who knows when life will return to normal?
Sometimes I want to just throw up my hands and say "Fuck it and fuck you! I'm leaving!" I've done that a time or two. But I suppose my days of irresponsibility are over and I can no longer walk away when I get fed up.
I was talking to an old friend recently and I suggested to her that we pack our stuff and just take off traveling until the money runs out. Then after the money is gone, wherever we are, we work. . .until we have enough to make it back. Writing about and photographing the whole ordeal.
Well, one can dream. . .
Coffee? Check
Dirty underwear? Check.
Lab and field reports? Check.
Camera and computer? Check.
Malfunctioning Troxler 3440? Check.
Sunglasses? Check.
Slight Johnny Walker Black hangover, sore back and arm from the craps table? Double check.
Pocket full of cash? Yep.
Sometimes, just sometimes, "the dark side" is the place to be, even if the rest of your compatriots are ready to murder you. Because hey, it ain't always about 7 or 11 on the "Pass" line.
Hang on Bobcat, I'm coming home.
I would like to send out a very special thank you to the anonymous and attractive blonde and her girlfriend from Georgia in the BMW 325i who ran blocker for me from Gulfport to Magee, Mississippi, which is where I turn west winding my way home to the wooded warmth of Egypt Hill.
These two young ladies blew past me on I-10 this morning, so I tagged along, struggling initially to keep up and having no idea that they were going to turn north on Highway 49 heading towards my home.
I was grateful to be able to drive like a maniac and be the person that I hate most, which is an unsafe, discourteous lunatic with no regard for the safety and well-being of others.
Hey, I never said I was perfect! Sometimes, even I am a narrow-minded hypocrite! Ha!
Over 110 miles in approximately 1 hour and 30 minutes. Fast!
Go to sleep little baby!
On second thought, WAKE UP!!
It's 2:10 a.m., why the hell are you still sleeping?
Oh.
I forgot. Everyone else has normal work hours.
3 hours from now I'll be in Gulfport, near the Wal-Mart, with a switchblade and a bag full of clean underwear.
and I would also like to wish a Happy Birthday to a very special person who just reached the milestone age of forty twenty-six seven twelve.
Happy Birthday young lady and yes, it doth burn still in mine own heart like thine sky blue color of joy.
I thought I was going home today, but I find myself again in room 119 of the Ritz-Carlton Deer Island Resort (Comfort Inn) wondering, wondering when I will encounter the perfect salad. My quest has been filled will many misguided manoeuvres, misplaced platitudes and the stark realization that hotel showers the world over are in fact, quietly solemn torture chambers.
I leave you now with my keen sense of intuition:
Tyler Florence's inspired salads at Applebee's will kick the ass crack out of goober Guy Fieri's dog shit jerky salads from T.G.I.Friday's.
Yeah, there are better options in the area. Emeril has a restaurant down the road, Mary Mahoney's is a great old tradition, but sadly my favorite place, Trapani's was washed away in the sadistic fury of Katrina.
Plus, I'm tired, grumpy, it's late, I'm running out of clean clothes, and Applebee's is about 12 steps away.
Wish me luck as I cross the 4th circle of the salad hell inferno.
God Bless Heineken!
do you know where your Toast is?
Your Toast is on his way to Gulfport/Biloxi down on the beautiful Mississippi Gulf Coast to monitor to installation of engineered fill over geotextile fabric. Pretty freakin' neat, huh? Yeah, I can feel your excitement.
Can someone email me a cup of coffee?
This is the time of the morning I like most. It's quiet. No phone ringing. No compression machine in the back crunching concrete cylinders, no giant soil grinder reverberating from outside, no dumb questions, no messages, no worries.
The remainder of society is trying to wake up, to get moving. Me? I've been up for two and a half hours already. I fed the dog, petted the cat, took out the garbage, purchased some gas. . .my world is moving. Everyone else is asleep.
I could sit here for hours quietly doodling away or silently contemplating the worlds ills, however it's just a matter of time before the phone begins bleeping. Sometimes, I just wish one of my secretaries, instead of speaking through the intercom in a polite style, "Burnt Toast, Line 1", I wish, I wish one of them would just break down and hysterically scream, "Answer the goddamn phone you fucking moron!"
I dunno, it'd be a nice change from the norm.
I like change. Not the Barack Obama kind of change that really isn't change at all, just words. Anyway, change. Like packing up and moving somewhere new. A foreign land perhaps. I miss the adventure of years past. Today's change is whether or not I'm going to have coffee in the morning.
Today, it's coffee.
I made it barely. I missed my early morning flight, then got stuck in the 'aluminum tube' for two hours on the tarmac in Houston. Cursed rain! Yet, I am home.
I estimate that it'll take me about 4 days to completely dry out from all of the festivities. I had a great time and was happy to meet a lot of new and interesting people, as well as seeing a lot of old, familiar faces. 
Events like this give me hope for our future. There are a lot of caring, generous and dynamic young people in this world and I am grateful to have many friends amongst them.
I'll be posting more pictures over the next few days from the 'happenings' of Ferrell Fest and I am also setting up a Fickr account so I can post the majority of the pictures in one place for everyone to enjoy. It'll take a few days I'm sure because I took nearly 1,500 picture in two days. A lot of editing yet to be done.
But for now, rest and lots of it.
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